By The Sword, Part I

When the castle was quiet and the servant’s had all gone to bed, Princess Avellana snuck out from her chambers and moved down the spiral staircase of stone like a ghost.

Through the great hall she crept, candle in hand, moving from patches of light filtering in through windows back into the shadows. Her skin was ablaze with the summer heat, her nightdress sticking to her chest with glistening sweat. Yet it was her heart that drove her forward, her heart that had come up with this plan to be a sneak, her heart that had convinced her it was now or never.

Her goal was to reach the armory at the end of the hallway, and step inside. Within would be her object of affection, the thing she had dreamt about, soaking her sheets with tangy sweat. It was the right hand of the king’s prized possession – a two handed great sword crafted by the best blacksmith in the land. Dubbed ‘Chance’, it had a silver handle decorated with a grey stripe that bore the purest rubies Avellana had ever seen.

One time she had been sitting in on council when she saw it in person. She recalled her heart quickening, her nipples hardening. It was not the man that had done this to her, something deep within her had sensed, it was the sword. This weapon of destruction, oh how sharp could it be! How easily it could slit open a neck just to bathe the user in blood. Chance, thought Avellana.

In the beginning she wrestled with these violent thoughts. Fending off alternate realities in which she was mad, she sought solace in the woods outside the palace walls, bathing in the sun amongst the sun-kissed fields of grass , learning how to ease her mind. Learning how to merge the realities into a singular one.

But no matter how long she laid beneath the shield of grass, sun-drunk and aroused, the urge, sheer fascination crept back into her mind, and she found herself thinking of Chance and the adventures it embarked on out beyond the kingdom’s boundaries. What dastardly beasts! What ferocious foes! What devilish scoundrels!

Avellana gripped the armory’s doorknob gently, ignoring its cold touch that seized her hand. Pushing gently still, she emerged within the dark room, peering through the darkness, glimpsing only figures. Behind her, she shut the door as gently as she opened it.

As she moved through the room, her body began to tremble. It started as a light shiver on the arms, traveling down across her body, tingling and intense.

Gazing around at the swords, the shields, all faceless in the low light, doubt began to manifest. What if the Swordsman slept with his sword, clutching it gently, dreaming of adventure, of murder, of brutality.

Avellana scanned the room, feeling her heart seemingly creep up her throat from its place in her chest.

That’s when she saw it – there was no mistaking its ruby which the candlelight caught with its ever watchful gaze. The ruby, exposed even hanging still in its scabbard, seemed to gaze back at Avellana, drawing her near.

Hands trembling, breath coming out of her dry lips in short bursts, Avellana, the nineteen year old princess, stepped close towards the sword where it rested on the shelf, transfixed, enamoured. So captivated was she that she didn’t register her hands finding the tied knot in her nightgown. A swift gesture with the hands — and her gown collapsed to the floor.

Now fully nude and with her hands free, and her heart working overtime, Avellana reached up, the cool air caressing her armpits, and gently picked up the sword. She exhaled shakily, running her fingertips across the smooth leather sheath. Her chest was tight, the air was cool. Senses flooded her all at once. She inhaled the dark, exhaled the light – and pulled the sword free from the sheath.

A moment passed between Chance and Avellana. How queer the sight must’ve been to an onlooker, a nude girl, long blonde hair covering her breasts, her mound a faint light fuzz, holding a silver sword high above her, as if ready to strike.

Her mouth open, her throat dry, Avellana raised her left hand to the tip of Chance and pressed down. Something cold and sharp stung her and she reeled back her hand to look at the crimson dot on her finger tip. She drew it into her mouth, tasting the strange metallic tang. Thoughts running rampant, adventure, carnage, defence – she grinned as she looked back at the tip of the sword. How many victims fell to this device?

Laying on her gown sprawled out underneath her, right leg bent up, her left laying out, Avellana couldn’t help but smile. With her left hand, she lifted the sword gently down upon her body. Cold steel embraced her from her breasts down to between her legs. At first she jumped at the cool touch, giggling for her reaction, but then, with sudden ferocious concentration, she held the sword there against her thigh, fighting against the freeze, willing her mind to hold it, to take the chill. Her eyes clenched shut as she braced for the full brunt of the bite.

To be concluded…